Valarlings
by Insomniac Luddite
Summary: Chaos in Aman. Drowning Hobbits. Hormonal heroes and Ringbearers. Valier frightened out of their wits. Returned kinslayers. Grumpy Mandos. And all because … Chapter 2 up.
1. Default Chapter

                                                                                    **Valarlings**

**Disclaimers:** All the characters you recognise and this world belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate.  I only own the Valarlings, and I don't expect he'd want them.  I am making no money from this and I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.  I promise to put them back in their boxes once I've finished playing with them.

**Rating:** PG-13.

**Summary:** Chaos in Aman.  Drowning Hobbits.  Hormonal heroes and Ringbearers.  Valier frightened out of their wits.  Returned kinslayers.  Grumpy Mandos.  And all because … the Valar have decided that it would be a very good idea to have children of their Thought… Oh dear *eg*  

**A/N:** Yes, I know this would never happen.  However, it was born out of a plotbunny thrown at me on Imloth (which should teach me to keep my mouth shut when I have odd ideas going round in my head).  I began to talk about whether Maia/Man and Vala/Elf crossbreeds were possible and then things got a tad insane.  So here we are.

**LSB:** Thanks for your help with the Quenya.

**Lajiggles**, **Rose Red, ****Alena and **Klose**: I hope you enjoy, you evil, evil people *grins***

On with the insanity…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Varda lifted her gaze from the star registry in front of her and listened intently with her head on one side like a sparrow – albeit a nearly six foot glowing immortal sparrow.

"They are at it again," she observed to the room's other occupant, who sat with his majestic feet up on the coffee table.

"I hear no screams of rage from Námo, so I cannot possibly see how you make the judgement that he and Fëanor are having one of their spats.  Now last month…"

His wife winced at the memory.  The Doomsman had requested the largest vat available in all the Undying Lands, filled it with Yavanna's extra-gloopy custard, and immersed Miriel's lunatic magpie of a son in it – headfirst.

"Not them," she sighed, getting to her feet and brushing the stardust from her skirts.  The wretched stuff got absolutely everywhere, although not as badly as the diamond dust of which the Children were so fond.  It was a miracle that Eärendil had not turned tail and fled at the first whiff, considering that it set his allergies off until he was sneezing like an overactive volcano.  "Your offspring, melmenya."

"Ours, I believe.  And whose idea was it in the first place?"

"Yours, Manwë."  She arched one brow as he tried to divert her with a breeze placed exactly so it would lift her skirts above the knee – and well beyond.  "As I recall, you said that you could not bear Nienna wailing like a stuck pig for another three Ages of the Sun, so if we were going to thoroughly spring-clean the Halls and release so many fëar, it was a sensible course of action to attempt to raise children of our Thought first to see if we could do better."

Manwë gave up his attempts at seduction.  Really, these 'pleasures of the flesh' were most … well, pleasant.  It was really surprising that Fëanor had had time to make those damn jewels.  But he always had been a strange one…

"But _first _was the operative word.  I intended for the children to be raised _before_ the hordes descended upon us," he said petulantly.

"Well, you should not talk with your mouth full of halibut.  'Twas no wonder that Námo could not hear your precise plans."

//But it was mind-speech, Varda…//

//You managed to garble it nonetheless// she riposted, wrinkling her nose so star-beams reflected dazzlingly off the ceiling.  "Come now, husband.  If you would be so kind as to call one of your eagles…"

"They are not a taxi service."  One of the less congenial aspects of knowing almost everything in the mind of Ilúvatar had been watching hours of mental footage of New York rush hour.  He had come to know the infamous yellow cabs really quite well – although it was not as bad as becoming intimately equated with the horrors of London's M25.  That was certainly a chord of Morgoth in the Music.  "And besides, the children frighten me."  
  


"Be not silly, melmenya," she said tartly.  "They will obey you."

"Somehow I doubt that."

~*~

"Ha, I have you!" Manwë's eldest son sank his teeth into Maedhros' newly restored right hand.  "I will bite it right off, just as my uncle's servant did."

"Your uncle was a bad man."  The red-haired elfing struggled to get free – which was a little difficult with Tulkas' son sitting on his ankles.  "He was nasty to me and stole my atar's things."

"He was not," Eleno cackled around a mouthful of squirming fingers.  "He was no man; he was an Ainu."

"Man, Ainu, small red squirrel, I care not.  He was bad."  Maedhros cast an imploring look at Caranthir who was sitting in the tree, devouring a honeycomb.  "Help me, brother mine."

"No, I do not think I will," the boy smiled unpleasantly – it was really quite surprising how little the Halls of Awaiting had affected him.  Although perhaps that had something to do with his tendency to sit in the rafters and giggle at all the other inmates while chewing his toenails.  "I prefer to watch."

"If only Makalaure were here…" And, when Eleno's attention was diverted by the sticky drops of honey oozing onto Caranthir's tunic, he burst free, rolling over on top of the other youngling.

If one did not look very closely, one might almost believe that the group was all of one kindred.  Delicately pointed ears like new fallen leaves, bright eyes, small bodies, and charming smiles on grubby faces.  Of course, that was not a mistake anyone made for long – not since Olwë had found himself halfway up Oiolossë garbed in naught but his hair and sturdy boots for tripping over the wrong elfling.  And the Valarlings glowed – the only advantage which the newly returned elves had over them.  It is hard to play hide-and-seek with beings who have inherited acute sight and hearing, especially when you are only just growing accustomed to having a full complement of limbs once more.

"And what is this I spy?  Can it be a pile of piglets?" a voice called from the leafy archway.  Tall he was, golden-haired and broad-shouldered, and a light shone in his clear grey eyes, like the passing of storm clouds before the Sun.

"Aiiiiiiii…" Eleno's twin Melno threw himself bodily at the newcomer, wrapping his arms around his neck and tangling his fingers in flowing blond locks.  Unfortunately, he had forgotten to put down his jam sandwich first.

"I bid you good day, little one."  Finrod Felagund wondered if his hair now counted as blessed due to the large preserved strawberry stuck to one of his braids.  It did not bear thinking about too closely, or he would feel sacrilegious washing it – as he had every intention of doing.  "Let me see: Eleno and Melno" – each now had a fistful of his hair and were investigating its potential edibility – "Irmin, who appears to be asleep, Tulkon – Tulkon, put Amras down.  I know you are stronger than him, but it is not kind."

The Valarling pulled a sulky face, but obeyed.  'Twas not good to disobey Uncle Finrod, for all that he was merely an Elf, because then one might miss out.  He was certainly more fun than Aunt Melian, who would just scowl and weep, and tell long, involved stories about cousin Lúthien's hair.

Amras' head hit the grassy turf with a thump and he suffered a childish flashback to the Kinslaying at Sirion.  Noting his expression, Finarfin's son decided that it would be wise to remind Nerdanel to keep all fire-making equipment out of her reach of her youngest offspring.

"Well," he continued.  "Who else do we have?  Ora I see is making marigolds sprout from Curufin's sandals … and Maedhros' now … and Amrod's hair.  Very pretty," he approved as the girl shyly presented him with a bunch of flowers.  "We are missing Osson, Varien and Aula.  Oh, and good day to you, my kinsmen, Celegorm and Caranthir."

The pair stared at him sullenly.

"Good day to you, little one," they chimed in unison, and, try as he might to forget, Finrod could not sweep the memory of that day in the audience chamber of Nargothrond from his mind.  These elflings were just too creepy.

Maedhros, however, bounded up to him, his red hair flying.

"Have you seen Fingon this morn?"

"He is here," a new voice sounded, and Finrod stiffened, sending Tulkon, who had been clambering all over his back, flying into the grass, where he lay, giggling uncontrollably to himself.

The slender elf-maiden lowered the small boy to the ground.  Even before his legs made contact, he was trying to scurry towards his friend, where he joined in a vigorous bout of braid pulling, ably aided by both Elven and Valar twins.

He bowed curtly.

"'Tis good to see you, Lady Amarië."

"I only wish I could say the same."  She turned away and pretended to be fascinated by the workmanship of the dry stone wall.

"The Atani make great stone walls," he said, desperate for some conversation, for anything to quell this pounding of his heart in his throat.

"Really?"

"Yes. You see, they make them with … with … lots of really good stones."

"That must be very … stony."

"Aye, it is … no cement at all.  Amazing what they can do with so few years … I mean, stones."

So caught up had they been in their conversation – or lack of it – that they had not noticed how the happy squeals had turned to muttered plotting – and there is no one in Arda Marred or the Undying Lands who can plot like a young Valar.  They make Saruman look like a half-witted cucumber sandwich seller with his monthly horoscope told by some hag with glue-on warts.

Of course, it would have helped if Irmin had been awake, but he was not, instead resolutely treading the paths of dreams.  Celegorm and Caranthir had challenged each other as to who could pull the legs from the most insects, but, as they touched his slumbering form, the tiny creatures found themselves suddenly whole and fluttered off, albeit a little like oliphaunts on pipeweed.

Alas, for the two discomforted Elves, even this was not enough to foil the younglings' dastardly plan.

Tulkon sprang first, a maniacal grin on his ruddy features.  With the strength of his father and the deer-like bouncing of his mother, he was quite a formidable opponent – especially as it was so hard to rebuke any of the children, with their conviction that they were invincible – as they were.  He leapt like a grasshopper and landed like the entire city of Tirion.

Oromë's daughter was the next, sitting on top of them, her doe eyes sparkling wickedly as shoots spiraled out of the ground, twisting over and up them, binding slender Elven limbs one to the other.  Unfortunately for the two star-crossed lovers – quite literally as Eleno was jumping across them in a contest with Fingon – the limbs which were bound together did not belong to the same person.

"Well…" Finrod said, as casually as he could.

"Well…" Amarië blushed scarlet, and tried to remove the tiny pink flower growing across her cheek – an attempt which had no effect except to bring her face to face with her erstwhile lover, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin.  "It seems that you hair is more alive than it was wont to be, melmenya…"

He was so caught off balance by the sudden turn of events – not to forget the aforementioned hair problem, caused by a delicate creeping rose growing along his scalp in a colour which did nothing for his complexion – that he did not even notice the endearment which had slipped out before she could stop it.  Ah, how many moments are lost in the warp and weft of time!  Especially when the offspring of the gods are chanting war-songs around you, and daubing small elflings and themselves with handfuls of mud.

"Give me more.  I want proper war-paint," Melno wailed.  "I look like an orc at the moment."

"What would you know about orcs?" Caranthir sneered.  "I have seen orcs as big as your atar…"

"They cannot be.  My atar is…"

Manwë and Varda chose that instant to arrive with Námo, covered in dust and wearing sepulchral robes bearing the legend 'I went to Mandos and all I got was this lousy robe', his wife by his side, and Nienna bringing up the rear.  Unfortunately for Finrod and Amarië, still locked in their not-quite unwilling embrace, as soon as the latter saw them she began to cry, great, sweeping torrents of tears.  The green creepers began to bud and grow … faster and faster, forming a green cocoon around them, until all sunlight was obscured.

"Will you kiss me now?" Amarië asked, and before the astounded Noldo could answer, she brushed her lips against his.  When he made no move, bound as he was by the tendrils in his hair, she drew back.  "You son of a Balrog!  Who was she?  You might at least have told me."

The voices above came from very far away, and, much to Finrod's horror, he was prevented from speaking.  A vine had grown across his mouth.

After what seemed like an Age of gazing into those furious eyes of Vanyarin violet – and he remembered with a shudder the similarly coloured eyes of a girl with red and black hair and platform heels who had tried to accost him in Ossiriand – the dancing Valarlings quieted.

A booming voice had bid them to silence, and a suddenly cold wind rustled the grass.

"Do you need to show off thus?" Varda whispered on the edge of Elven hearing.  "Would it not have been better to tell them off and make them go and learn Sindarin declensions?"

And then a darning needle poked through the encroaching foliage, wiggling from side to side until they could see the bemused face of a Valie peering through the undergrowth.

"Now, where did I put my scissors?" She fumbled through her voluminous robes.  "Ah yes…"

With a snip which nearly took off the end of Finrod's nose, she cut an escape route for them.

Amarië bolted through the available hole, brushing at her lips in disgust, and Finrod, his face the deep scarlet of ripe tomato – really quite unsuitable for an elf-lord, not to mention the fact that it clashed with his blue robes - followed her, to see a row of chastened looking elfings and baby Valar sitting on the wall, swinging their feet in disgruntlement.

"I am sure they were only having fun," soothed Irmin, who had finally awoken, rubbing at his eyes and smiling sleepily.

Vairë tucked her darning needle back into her pocket, and, drawing out a pad of paper and lump of charcoal, began absent-mindedly to sketch designs for the tapestry showing the arrival of the Ringbearers.

"In the Name of the One, what have we brought into this benighted world?" Námo inquired.

"Shiny elflings," Finrod muttered, but no one heard him, watching as they were Varda's agitated pacing.  Up and down she went, up and down, and the eyes of the elflings and Valarlings followed her like a row of demented seals fixated on a particularly tasty slice of tuna.

"This is not what I heard," she muttered at last.  "This is not the disturbance in the stars."

"Eru take the stars," Námo snapped.  "Your twins nearly sent another pair of feckless Elven lovers to my halls.  As it is not enough trying to get the cobwebs out of the corners with Fëanor composing extremely tuneless odes to his lost sodding Silmarilli at all hours."

"Husband, do not take this lightly."  When the Doomsman scowled at her, Vairë scowled back with a force which would have curdled milk – or pretty much anything, up to and including miruvor.  "There is something amiss, and it is not here."

While Nienna curled up in a ball in the corner of the garden, sobbing as she had when Vána had borrowed her favourite necklace and then lost it somewhere in the woods of the vale of the Anduin, the other Valar discarded their physical bodies and wafted away.

The Valarlings cheered up noticeably, and a chant began, soft at first, then louder and louder.

"Amarië loves Finrod.  Amarië loves Finrod."

As the singsong lilt filled the grove, the elf-maiden fled.

"Finrod loves Amarië.  Finrod loves Amarië."

The Elf glared at them like an angry rhino that has just discovered that another rhino has stolen his clean laundry.

"How did you know that I love her?"

Eleno and Melno smiled smugly.

"We have the sight of all things.  She kissed you."

"Ewwwwwwww!" Fingon exclaimed.  "Kissing is yucky."

"Just wait until you remember your wife," the elder Noldo breathed.  "Then you will not think thus."

Caranthir and Celegorm smirked as he squirmed, and, not for the first time, Felagund wished he had had the foresight to carve dungeons into the sheer rock of Nargothrond – preferably very dark, very deep dungeons, full of rats.

~*~

The forge was lit only by the flickering scarlet flames of the leaping blaze.  Strange instruments hung from the ceiling, glimmering with the reflected light of the coals.  A self-portrait of Curumo was stuck through with fire-tongs.

"No!  Aula, when atar says no, he means no.  Do not put your hands in the forge.  Do.  Not.  Put.  Your.  Hands.  In.  the.  Forge.  That is where atar makes hot, hot metal."

"But I cannot get burnt.  'Brimbor can get burnt, but I cannot."

"You should not encourage 'Brimbor to put his hands in the fire."  _Or go anywhere near a forge.  The last thing we need is more cursed jewellery.  I know they will blame it on me  'O Aulë, cannot you be more careful?'  As if I had wanted the whole Sauron and Curumo fiasco to happen_.  He knelt down beside the little girl.  "It is not kind, and, besides, you will get your sleeves burnt."

Indeed, her flowing gown has charred to cinders.  She made pears sprout from the ruins.

"Do not … no, Aula.  Do not put the pears in the flames.  Do you listen at all to what your atar tells you?" Aulë trailed off as his daughter bit into the roasted fruit.  "Ah, I see not.  As your mother, you are a law unto yourself."

The Valarling perched on the end of the anvil, watching interestedly as he fiddled with a red-hot circlet of entwined ivy leaves.

"Why do you make such things for atara?" she asked innocently, bouncing up and down and making all manner of strange undergrowth creep from the ironwork.

"Well, you see, your mother and I have an interesting relationship…"

"Like the Star and the Bird?"

It took Aulë several heartbeats – if he had needed to have a functional heart – to realise what his daughter was babbling about.  And then it took all his control to realise that he did not need to blush, either.  The one time he had decided to visit Elwing's tower, he had retreated hastily.  The couple seemed determined to make up for the years apart, and it was a miracle of the One that the seabirds were not scared away.

"Well, not exactly like that," he stammered.  "But she likes the growing things, and I prefer the things they grow in.  And sometimes we upset each other, and so I make her a pretty necklace."

Aulë finally realised why Finarfin had looked so horrified when he had suggested that the Elf should explain to his children how he could possibly be reconciled with Eärwen.  Who knew that the industrious Noldor could turn their passions to other paths…?

Aula began to dance in the blaze, her cheeks rosy, trying to see how high she could make the flames leap and if she could make an apple turn into a plough-share.  As she danced there was a disturbance in the centre of the room, like a tornado arguing with itself as to where it should go and whether it should be there at all.  Námo stepped out of the maelstrom first, dusting scraps of twig and small harmless animals from his black robes.

"Wretched Manwë.  I-am-the-Lord-of-the-Breath-of-Arda-but-I-do-not-know-where-I-am-going himself."

"I heard that."  The mightiest of the Valar emerged, followed by two rather bedraggled-looking Valier.  "Of course I know where I am going.  Do I not know the mind of the One?"

"Well, He does not seem to have enlightened you on the whereabouts of the miscreant children," Varda pointed out waspishly.  "I see that neither Osson nor Vairen is here."

"Well, if you had lent me you sight…" Manwë picked a bedazzled squirrel out of his flowing tresses.

"But you should have heard in the first place."

"What are you rabitting on about – no pun intended?" The smith enquired.  A lop-eared creature had hopped out from under Vairë's robes, narrowly missing the aggravated stab of the jumbled safety pins which nestled in the hem of her skirt.

"There is something wrong," Varda pronounced.  "I heard it."

"Well, Aula is here, so it cannot be the worst."

The child put on a suitably cherubic expression, slightly marred by dangling her toes in the flames.

"Nay.  'Tis terrible indeed."  And, with a flash of starlight, the Lady disappeared.  Manwë shrugged helplessly and followed her, as did the others, leaving father and daughter alone in the forge.

"Well, you must understand that these are tongs, not pruning sheers…" Aulë began as his daughter experimented with the combustible properties of his hair.

~*~

The ship was beautiful indeed, a masterpiece of silver and white, its proud bow reared up in a swan's head.  The light of morning reflected off it in myriad rainbows, glancing and glittering on the foaming waves.  That was, until it began to sink.

Glug.

Círdan's sailors were the first to jump, springing from the masts into the cool embrace of the ocean, like so many blond jellyfish.

Glug.

A blinding red light from the stern, and many curses in the tongue of the Haradrim and any other races that had sufficient phrases – including, oddly enough, Yiddish, despite the fact that it would not be invented for many centuries hence.

"May they grow with their heads in the … blub…"

Glug.

A small body threw itself into the water like a dumpling into stew, made all the more resonant by hitting the garlanded head of the Lady of the Golden Wood.  The rest of the Valarlings followed cheerfully, sinking the Periannath as they made rather inept tries for the shore.

Big blue eyes had not much effect on those who had grown up with Nienna's overflowing ones, and dark curls were just so much drifting seaweed.

Glug.

A dark comet from the sinking prow.

Glug.  Glug.  Glug.

And a very bedraggled peredhel made his way to shore, saltwater sluicing off his dark hair, velvet ceremonial robes clinging to him.

"I am out here!" A hand shot up in the harbour, a silvered head peeped above the waves.

"Ooops." And the half-elven lord dived back into the waves, entirely disregarding all others.

The crowd averted their eyes from all that ensued.

That was, until Ulmo reared up in the midst of the bay, his head crowned with seaweed, looking rather like a pot plant had upended itself on his brow.

Celebrían decided that this was not the best place to conduct her marital revels after all, grabbed her husband, who had a rather silly grin on his noble face, and began to swim for shore.

The tidal wave mounted up and up, holding perfectly still in a crashing wave like a Hobbit surveying a laden table.

"What is this?" the Vala grumbled.  "First, there are sinking Periannath.  The One really should have made sure that they floated.  Then Eärwen's daughter turns up on the seabed waving that thrice-accursed Ring around and wondering why she cannot swim when she has half a ton of parting gifts from her Moriquendi husband sown in her skirts – by the way, she is washed up halfway up the Pélori, with a hermit crab in her hair.  Then, the little ones swim across to me, and manage to steal all the brandy I had left over from Almaren.  And then I have to watch as my Human messenger's grandson conducts an enthusiastic reunion with his wife…" Elrond and Celebrían, as red as – well, a very red thing – crept through the crowd, their seawater-soaked garments trailing behind them.  "…And, to add insult to injury, a great big sodding ship lands on my head.  Would you please keep your children under control…"

A smaller tidal wave reared up beside him.

"Ummm … Ulmo … I think it was Osson who sank the ship, with Vairen's help, but he was the one who stuck a great big wedge of coral through the hull."

"He did what?" And the waters were suddenly calm – but the calm of a cat before it sinks its claws into your leg, drawing enough blood to fill the Falls of Rauros twice over.  "Ossë, I told you to look after him.  And did you?  Why, of course not.  'Twas far more fun to see if you could persuade a dolphin to wear your best shirt.  A dolphin!  Perhaps I should have married a dolphin; at least they show the slightest sign of intelligence."

Uinen surfaced above the ripples, carrying a Valarling in each arm.  Vairen was chewing on a crab leg while trying to see if he could weave a tapestry from his Maia friend's greenish hair.

"I did not mean it, my darling…"

"Huh, try to make no excuses for once," Uinen huffed.  "They pall after a few hundred times repetition, Mr. But-Melkor-Is-A-Really-Nice-Guy.  Now, Vairen, pityonya, would you like to see the pretty fish?  There are many fish in the waters of Middle-earth, and not many of them are idiots, unlike certain Maiar I could speak of…"

As the trio dived smoothly back into the blue-green depths, Námo let out a great sigh.

"Why do you look at me like that, Vairë?  'Tis better that he goes off and bothers the Elessar, than tries once more to see if he can make Fëanor glow in the dark without him noticing…"

"I thought you liked that, Námo."

"Well, yes, 'tis mighty amusing, but hardly professional."

Manwë and Varda slunk to the fore, grabbing their offspring, just as Olórin spluttered to the surface.

"I was dragged in a current halfway to Harad," he complained.  "Maybe I should just have taken up Elladan and Elrohir's offer of a hermitage in the storerooms of Rivendell, despite the overpowering smell of the mushrooms which they had to keep there when the Hobbits stayed…"

"Mushrooms?" Frodo miraculously began breathing again, lifting his head from its cushion of exceedingly whiffy bladderwrack.  

Irmin obligingly sat on him and went to sleep.

"Well, as I was saying," Olórin continued, "first I must suffer Curumo's presence for the best part of an Age – and this is a being whose idea of a grand ole time is playing Charades for seventeen days on end – and then I am sunk.  What new horror has befallen the Undying Lands?"

As if in answer, Eleno and Melno threw themselves out of their parents' arms and into those of the Maia.  A Valarling can choose to be light as a feather or as heavy as a Hobbit after a birthday party.  Unfortunately, they chose the latter.  The wizard collapsed to the ground.

"Oh, in the Name of the One," he cursed, "you have not done it, Varda?  I thought 'twas only because you were a little delirious from being hit on the head by Námo's stress balls once too often.  You have created the bane of Aman?"

"Yes."  She blushed, causing a few stars in the Andromeda galaxy to go nova.  "Meet our children, Olórin."

And the Valarlings smirked.

TBC?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

fëar – spirits, souls.

Atar – father.

Atara – mother.

Melmenya – my love.

Pityonya – my little one.

**Valarlings**

Eleno and Melno – twin sons of Manwë and Varda.

Vairen – son of Mandos (Námo) and Vairë.

Aula – daughter of Aulë and Yavanna.

Irmin – son of Lórien (Irmo) and Estë.

Ora – daughter of Oromë and Vána.

Tulkon – son of Tulkas and Nessa.

Ulsson – son of Ossë and Uinen.  (I know they're not Valar, but it felt … appropriate).

Reviews will feed my insane muse and stop him eating me alive *grins*


	2. Yuletide

                                                                                                **Valarlings**

**Chapter Two**

*waves to all reviewers*

Yes, you are wonderful, if slightly insane, people.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Vairë had long since come to the conclusion that she rather liked being incarnate.  Certainly, it meant that she had to put up with having her feet trodden on by hapless Teleri fishermen, and her hair pulled out by her son, but there were distinct advantages… The Valie burrowed deeper into her spouse's embrace, enjoying the sensation of skin sliding against skin.  Námo pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and, with unusual practicality, made her nightgown disappear.  She shivered as he coiled his long legs around her waist, and trailed his fingers down her body.  Very distinct advantages…

A small brick wall landed on them in the form of their son, and bounced several times.  Námo cursed fluently in seventeen different languages and pulled a pillow over his head.  Vairen, however, had different ideas.  Sitting on his mother, who was trying to recreate her robe at the same time as regaining her composure, he tugged at one exposed black lock.

"Get up, atar."

"What do we say?" Vairë reprimanded him.

"Now?"

"Try again, pityo."

"Please get up now, atar," Vairen corrected himself.  "You promised me that you would show me around the Halls today…"

The Valie looked askance at the trembling pile of goose feathers better known as the Doomsman of the Valar.

"Did you say that, husband mine?"

"Ummm…" He could not have frightened a pigeon, let alone the fëar of the dead, as he was, a few stray feathers clinging to his sleep-rumpled hair, and guilt written clear across his face.

"Do you think that it is appropriate to expose our son to madmen?"

"Fëanor should not be a problem.  He is…" His eyes unfocused. "Ah, yes.  He is currently amusing himself with tormenting one of those 'fangirls'.  She arrived yesterday, having decided rather rashly that she was able to fly.  The ground rather disproved that, yet still she insists that she is an Elf, and should take up residence in the Halls.  The Spirit of Fire is persuading her otherwise."

"I do not think that we should give Vairen any ideas about responsible behaviour towards any of the Free Folk."

"You call these creatures 'Free Folk?" he asked incredulously.

"Well…"

Vairen, bored by his parents' argument, began tracing lazy designs on the coverlet.  Alas, with the Weaver for a mother, and a Master of Spirits for a father, his creations were a little … lively.  One nervous warrior, clutching a misshapen spear, skewered the Vala's knee.

"Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" Námo screamed, and all the re-embodied Elves in the Undying Lands winced, wondering what the eldest son of Finwë had done _this time.  "Desist."_

The Valarling looked up at him with guileless black eyes as the warriors executed a victory dance.

"Pleeeeeeease."

"Very well," Vairë relented.  "But only once you have had breakfast."

Even before she had finished speaking, the Valarling scampered from the room, his bare feet slapping on the tiled floor as he began to make porridge.  It would only be right, he decided, if he also made breakfast for atar and atara, especially on this day…

Vairë calmly selected a robe of rich, embroidered burgundy and shrugged herself into it.  She seated herself before the mirror – not that she needed a mirror, but it was so _shiny_ that she could not resist – and began to brush her hair.

"Is that not rather … indecently cut?" Námo inquired, coming to stand behind her.

"Jealous, my dear?"

"I see not why one of the Valier should array herself as an elf-maiden for the delectation of all."

"So you disapprove?" she asked archly.  "I should swathe myself to the neck in veils?  So neither you nor any other can see my flesh?"

He shifted uncomfortably.

"Would you prefer that none should see this?" She brought his hand round to rest on the bodice of her dress, and his fingers began to move seemingly of their own accord, dipping under the luxurious fabric.

"Aiii … no."

And it was a very long time before they made their way downstairs to breakfast – which was a mistake, albeit a pleasurable one.  The kitchen was decorated liberally with swirls of sugar syrup, and crystallised fruits adorned the floor … the walls … the ceiling … Vairen's hair … a sparrow perched on the windowsill…

"Oh Eru…" the Vala groaned.

"No, dear, I do not expect that He did this.  Our culprit is rather nearer at hand."

Vairen was sitting inside the bubbling pot of porridge, making it arc into graceful loops around him.  When he noticed his parents, he let the gloopy substance fall with a squelch to the floor.  Námo winced as it spattered all over his robes, and Vairë wiped absent-mindedly at her eyes.

"See, atar, and atara: I made porridge."  There were, indeed, three bowls of congealed food set on the worktop.  However, they could not exactly be called porridge, considering the amount of fruit, syrup, and, the Valar suspected, chicken soup mix added to them.  And they were more solid than the roots of Taniquetil itself.  Alas, they did not have time to consider this culinary disaster in any detail, for the Valarling had flung himself out of the bubbling pot, across the intervening distance and into their arms.  Not for the first time, they wondered how such a small creature could cause so much mess.

"Happy Yuletide," he burbled, pressing sloppy kisses to each divine face.

//We…//

//…forgot// Vairë finished succinctly.  //You take him to the Halls; I shall arrange gifts.//

~*~

Finrod Felagund awoke with a splitting headache, and pondered for a moment the idea that he might still be in the dungeons of Tor-in-Gaurhoth.  A wolf would be a nice fate, nice and simple, and it might make the Naugrim with hammers who inhabited his skull go away… But the lump asleep on his chest was not a creature of Morgoth (although this was a question which had sometimes plagued him), but the son of Irmo and Estë.  Really, mountains moved more in a day than he would in a hundred years.  And the gentle sprinkling of water falling on his aching brow testified to the presence of Ulsson.

"How are you this morning?" An amused voice asked from the doorway.

"Go away."  He tried to turn over, but fell off the couch on which he had been resting and crashed to the floor.  Irmin continued to sleep, oblivious to everything.

"That bad?" The elf-maiden did not sound sympathetic.  "I shall persuade my husband to concoct something to alleviate the symptoms, although I fear that the cure will be almost as bad as the malady."

Finrod cracked one eye open and pushed himself upright, shoving his tumbled golden hair from his eyes.  A bemused starfish landed on his head, and he looked up to see Ulsson swinging from the chandelier, holding a pail of seawater and a very confused dolphin.  And then he looked down.

"Why in the name of all the Valar am I wearing Olórin's robes?"

"I do not see what atar and atara have to do with this," Irmin mumbled, and then turned over and went back to sleep.

"You both lost a game of poker with Olwë, who demanded that you switch attire with our Istar friend.  And then you turned up here at three in the morning, singing the Ballad of the Seven Swinging Sea-Captains.  Somewhere along the way, you had acquired these two Valarlings."

"Why here?"

"Would you really like me to explain, uncle?" Celebrían inquired politely.

"It cannot be any worse."

"You wished to ask Elrond how he managed to … I believe your words were 'capture' me…"

At precisely that inopportune moment, the aforementioned elf-lord strode into the room, humming contentedly, and engaged his wife in a kiss long enough for Ulsson to begin lobbing starfish at Irmin's slumbering form.

"El-nîn," she warned him, drawing back only reluctantly, playing with his high collar.

"What, melethril?  Oh, I see that at least one of our guests has awakened."

Finrod glanced across at the other couch, only to see the Istar, still clad in the form which he had worn in Middle-earth, but in garb which the Elf knew he himself had donned the previous morning.

"Oh Eru." He staggered upright, clutching at the furniture to prevent himself collapsing into a heap on the floor like a fangirl after one too many sightings of Thranduil's daft son.  "What … what did I say … I pray that it was not too much…"

"Well, you tried to make miruvor pancakes, and then…" Elrond grinned, assuming an appropriately inebriated demeanour.  "I believe it went like this: 'How d'you capture a lady, kinsman?  I mean … I mean … it goes like this … it goes … how d'you get her t'like you when she does not?' Mithrandir made some rather off-colour remarks at this point.  'But I like her, El … El … El … Lúthien, I really do.  You know that I like her, do you not, sister-daughter.  So, so pretty, my little Vanya, my Amarië.  No, you d'n't understand … you see… you see… she is a bit like the sea … did I ever tell you that?  Did I ever tell her that?  V'much like the sea: v'pretty and v'dangerous.  But y'see the point is … the point is … it is a very pointy thing … I really like her … more than like her: I l've her.  I really, really, really do.  But she does not love me.  I am dooooomed."

"Enough." The Maia had levered himself up unto his elbow and was regarding them blearily.  "One rendition of that was quite enough."

"I agree." Finrod was as white as the sea-foam with which Ulsson was adorning the walls.  "Oh Eru … What brought on this fit of insanity?"

"Why I believe 'tis simple." Olórin looked particularly out of place in flowing verdigris robes, like a deer wearing a coronet, or Nienna with a cheerful smile.  "Happy Yuletide, my friends."

Finrod leapt for the door, muttering something about having to return home before his mother shoved roast goose on his head, and a trout up each nostril.

Ulsson disappeared with a pop, his dolphin companion looking rather relieved, and Irmin slept on.

~*~

In the halls of the Lord of the Breath of Arda, there were two very happy Valarlings giggling among mounds of paper the size of oliphaunts.  Varda picked a piece of gilt ribbon from her midnight hair and looked ruefully at her husband.

"Perhaps we should have forgone the gifts, and simply given them rolls of paper."

"Nay: look."

Eleno was busy trying to entangle a toy eagle in his brother's hair.  Melno, his eyes as bright as a solar flare, set fire to his brother's tunic.  Manwë leapt forward to put it out, and found himself inundated with sheets of paper, a tiny solar system whirling around his head.

"What is this?  The greatest of the Aratar kept prisoner by his own sons?" The newcomer's voice was fair and clear, yet mockingly sharp.  Varda stiffened almost imperceptibly and glanced around for a blunt object – such as her husband – to throw.

The Valarlings peered out from behind their curtains of black hair and shrank back, shielding their blue eyes with identical toy horses.

"Have a care, brother," Manwë snarled.  "Your current form is not conducive to anyone's mental health."

"I have no choice about it," the hideous scarred creature complained.

"Oh, for today…" The Vala waved his hand negligently, and the other shrugged casually into the form of an Elf, tall and marvellously handsome, golden hair caught up in intricate braids.  "But what are you doing here, in the name of Eru?  'Tis not yet the ending of days."

"Do not speak _that name.  You know that I like it not."_

"And I find that I care not what you like, Melkor.  And I repeat: why are you here?"

"How could I miss Yuletide with my nephews?"

"You managed it well enough for the last dozen years."

"Ah well, that chain is difficult to lug anywhere." Melkor grinned wolfishly.  "It took some time.  And I did not wish to return to Eä while my bird-brained lieutenant was still prancing round the place pretending that he was the best thing since sliced lembas.  Ha!  To think that he assumed he was as good as I…or rather as bad…"

"Go back to the Void from whence you came, Morgoth."

"Really, brother, it becomes you not to use that name.  It pains me, it really pains me hear such syllables issue forth from your lips." He settled himself into the nearest chair with an air that suggested that he did not intend to depart any time soon – meaning before at least the next Age had passed.

"Yet maybe not as much as this would pain you." Varda pressed one of Vairë's discarded darning needles into the flesh of his throat.

"My dear sister-in-law." He plastered a lecherous smile across his face – rather like a Sindar archer who has just been presented with a fangirl only wearing hotpants and stiletto heels - and pressed a kiss to her free hand.  The Valie shuddered.  "Surely you would not perpetrate any violence in the presence of your dear, innocent little sons."  He gestured to Eleno and Melno who had crept forward, each clutching a fluffy cloth hedgehog in protection against the Dark Lord.  "Come here, my darling nephews.  Would you not like to know what Uncle Melkor has brought for you?  He makes very nice things for little Valarlings in the Void that is Without."

Ignoring their parents in the manner of small children everywhere, they plonked themselves on his knees.

"Now what have I here…" There were chocolate Elves (albeit that they seemed to be tethered by their wrists to an unseen rock-face); orc-shaped jellybabies; tiny harps that gave off a discordant music, and that suddenly caught fire.  Manwë whistled innocently and smiled at his wife from behind his hand.  And finally, with a triumphant flourish, the fallen Ainu produced a pair of perfect spears from the folds of his black robes.  Alas for his evil designs, the Valarlings seemed more interested in investigating whether they could use them as tent-poles than poking each other with the sharp ends.  Varda reflected that the ruination of her rugs was a small price to pay compared to Valarlings who looked more like fishing nets than children.  Melkor smiled a little sourly.

"Well, dearest brother." Manwë looked like the proverbial cat that had not so much got the cream as the whole herd of cows and the franchise for making Valinor YoghurtTM.  "Would you care to join us for a meal?"

As the Dark Lord was pondering his response, there was a wild noise of small shod feet in the corridor outside and a tiny body tumbled into the room.

Maedhros remembered his manners and bowed hastily to the Valar.

"Happy Yuletide, my lord, my lady."  He paused for breath and tugged at his rumpled tunic.  "Atara said to bid you have a wonderful midwinter, and can I play with Eleno and Melno now?  And is Fingon here?"

"Happy Yuletide, Nelyafinwë Maitimo." Melkor rose suavely from his chair and smiled down at the elfling.  Maedhros, clutching his right hand, fainted dead away.

"What have you done to our friend?" The two Valarlings, enraged, charged.  'Twas one thing to face all the hosts of Men and Elves, but quite another to try to overcome two small semi-divine beings whose collective height was rather less than that of a squirrel.  He collapsed to the floor, and resigned himself to being bitten rather hard.

Fingon arrived only moments later, and was in no doubt as to the identity of this strange grown-up.  Having your father killed in single combat tends to rather reinforce your memory of such things.

"Halt!  Halt!" Aulë boomed from the doorway, clutching his daughter, who was, as ever, slightly charred, to him.  Melkor grinned gratefully.  "Oh.  'Tis you.  Worry not children.  Let us have a competition as to who can bite him the most."

Ora appeared out of mid-air, holding the hands of a frazzled-looking Fingolfin and his wife, shortly to be followed by Irmin and the former Lord and Lady of Imladris.  The Dreamer's child had finally woken up and decided that if this was the case, then no one should be in bed.  Even those who were not exactly asleep.  Elrond and Celebrían hastily readjusted their clothes – or what little was left of them.  Varda took pity on them and produced a blanket large enough to cover seventeen Hobbit elders after a feast that could have fed all Middle-earth for the next five centuries.  The Valarling threw himself into the fray with sleepy abandon, while Fingolfin lunged ineffectually for his son's flailing feet.  After having been caught in the eyes one too many times by wheeling planetoids courtesy of Eleno and Melno, he sat on the floor and began to chew absent-mindedly on a slice of ham which had somehow made its way onto his hands.  Elrond might have looked pityingly at his great-grandfather, but he decided instead to turn his attentions to his wife's lips.  

"Five hundred years is far too long even in the reckoning of the Eldar."

"Three times last night, meleth-nîn.  Two times this morning: once in the bathtub."

"Has my lady complaints?"

"Nay.  I was merely pointing out…"

"…That 'tis far too few times," he growled.

"Far too few."  She began to lead him towards the door, but a gas giant the size of a thumbnail, courtesy of Eleno blocked their passage, chattering angrily.

"I think it means to say that you must stay for dinner," Varda explained, watching her husband, who had entered the fray.

"Who with?" Celebrían's heart sank.  She had rather more _… interesting plans for the afternoon, involving no roast fowl but a considerable amount of whipped cream and honey._

"Oh, Manwë and I," the Valie said blithely.  "And Eleno and Melno.  And Aulë and Yavanna – if they are on speaking terms today – and Aula.  And Ora and Irmin, and Fingolfin and Anarië, and Fingon and Maedhros and Melkor."

Elrond paled.

"Must we?" He fiddled with the ring on his left hand, its faceted sapphire sending brilliant sparks shimmering across the ceiling.  "I mean…"

"Yes."

~*~

The peredhel lord regarded the dinner table with dismay, gnawing on a chicken bone to relieve his frustration.  Fingon and Maedhros had their heads together, plotting some devious scheme involving piles of mashed potato as props.  Manwë and Melkor were engaged in a heated argument on experimental theology and why it could be a Bad Thing, entailing much waving of cutlery and the occasional levitating jug of gravy.  Irmin was asleep in the sausages.  Fingolfin, much to his wife's amusement, was attempting to brain himself with a tureen full of sautéed carrots.  Aula was refusing to eat her peas, and Aulë and Yavanna were locked in an argument, which had obviously already lasted several years, as to whose fault this was.

"I bet I can eat more stuffing than you," Melno proclaimed.

"Oh really?" I am the eldest.  I bet I can eat more than you."

"Really?  Well then, the loser must put slugs in Nienna's bed."

"Done."

Elrond decided that it might be a wise idea to drown himself in the mushroom sauce that surrounded the trout.

"Ooh, mushrooms!" A Hobbit popped up from Eru knows where, and was hastily sat upon by Aulë.  
  


"Being left in a room with Erestor and the collection of the tax records of Lindon and Imladris would be preferable to this," the peredhel groaned.

"Really?" A slender hand creeping into his lap soon changed his mind.

"Stay, celeb loth nîn, stay."

She pouted, and then leaned closer, whispering into his ear.  "Do you not think that Morgoth looks rather like a beached haddock crossed with a hairdresser?"

"I had never seen it like that," he mused.  "But now you mention it…"

"No!  No!  No!" The entire table looked up, and even Irmin removed his braids from the sausages, expecting some profound statement from Manwë on the Music.  "You cannot put cabbage in stuffing, my brother: the whole wretched bird will taste like a swamp."

"Precisely.  Imagine all the horrified looks."  

Finally the Lord of the Breath of Arda had has enough.  He threw a half-eaten goose in his brother-in-Thought's face.  The evil and dripping Ainu arose in a huff, setting the curtains alight.  His dread demeanour was rather impaired by the green beans clinging to his shoulders.

"Well, I see I am not wanted here."

"You never were." Maedhros waved all five fully functional fingers of his right hand at the Ainu.

"Aaargh.  Humph.  I am going back to the Void."

Elrond smothered a laugh in his wife's silvery hair.  There was a howling wind, and then a deep silence only broken by Aulë's resounding laughter as he thumped his fork on the table.

"Really, dear…" Yavanna protested.

"I have wanted to do that for years.  Well done, Maedhros.  Would you like to learn smith-craft once more at my side?  Celebrimbor is already demonstrating the talent he had once…"

Maedhros shuddered and crouched lower in his chair.  "No.  Please no.  Nasty shiny things … too bright … too hot…"

Fingon began to pull silly faces in an effort to cheer him up.  "What do I look like now?" He was balancing peas on his eyebrows and had a carrot wedged up each nostril.

"Like a narwhale, child," Anairë said tartly and reached over to extricate the abused vegetables.  "I am sure Maedhros does not wish to be friends with a narwhale."  

Unfortunately, Eleno and Melno had decided that this was a very good idea, and were busy trying to fit the chicken carcasses over their heads.  Aula had been banned from playing with Celebrimbor for two weeks, having accidentally imprisoned him in a giant gilded birdcage, and was feeling left out.  She began to transmute the potatoes into solid gold and use the elders for target practice.  One hit Elrond solidly on the ear, and he ducked under the table, drawing his wife with him.

"There is more peace in Bree than in all the Undying Lands," he muttered.

"Poor little scholar." Celebrían giggled, smoothing his dark hair.  "Might I be able to assist your state of mind?" She trailed a delicate path down the front of his ceremonial tunic, grazing her nails across his nipples.  Elrond let out a muffled whimper and arched into her touch.  The voices of the Valar and Elves seemed to come from a great distance.

"Manwë, I leave it to you to pry that dead bird from your eldest son's head, while I attend to the next course."

There was a shuffling of feet, and pair of silver slippers disappeared, but neither of them noticed that any more than they noticed Eleno's strangled yelps as two Valar wrenched his head from its gravy-soaked resting place, or Melno's cries as Ora, sitting atop the no longer pristine tablecloth, attempted to wedge a platinum corncob in his ear.

They did, however, notice the blinding flash of light, similar to a blue giant in a very bad mood that flashed through the room.

"What.  Did.  I.  Say.  O.  Husband.  Mine?" the enraged Valie yelled.

"I know not." Manwë tried to appear innocent, which was a little difficult considering that he was supposed to know everything.

"How charming." A previously unknown black hole threatened to swallow up several inhabited planets in the next galaxy but one.  "Perhaps you should have your ears checked so that you do not find yourself thus inconvenienced the next time He wishes to tell you something.  I told you that the steamed pudding should be set on a low heat, not one so high that it could be used to forge mithril.  Behold the fruits of your labours."

There was a crash like the fall of Thangorodrim, and blackened fragments spun across the room.  One landed at the peredhel's feet and he picked it up dubiously.  There was, he saw, what might have once been a raisin embedded in it.  Now it looked more like a deep-fried orc toenail.  Celebrían caught his eye.

"Mayhap we should busy ourselves.  'Twould be best not to become involved in matters that are far above our comprehension."

"You are wise indeed, hervess-nîn."  And he returned to the far safer contemplation of the tip of her ear, nipping it gently between his teeth while the maelstrom roared around them.

"…did you think you were doing?"

"Hardly my…"

"You are upsetting Aula."

"Be quiet, Yavanna, unless you wish to spend the next six yéni picking gas giants out of the shrubs."

"Do not speak thusly to my wife…"

"Who are you to stop me Mr. Bad-choice-in-Maiar?"

A small face appeared under the table, upside down, black hair falling around pointy ears.

"Elrond is K.I.S.S.I.N.G Celebrían.  Elrond is kissing Celebrían."

"Elrond is…" Eleno joined in.  "Why are you kissing Celebrían _there_?"

The elf-lord blanched.  As Celebrían fumbled with the fastenings of her bodice, he felt sure that it could not get any worse – that was, until Yavanna Kementári lifted the hem of the tablecloth and stared at him with shocked blue eyes.

"Children!  Really!"

They scrambled out from under the table to be confronted with a circle of beings whose expressions ranged between shock, amusement and ill-disguised envy.

"Oh, quiet yourself, beloved." Aulë chuckled.  "I seem to remember a not dissimilar occurrence in Almaren."

"That was a mistake.  I knew not the potency of the liqueurs Namo brews, and I thought you were more wearied than you were… And think not that _you_ shall be enjoying of those delights _ever_ again if you persist in reminding me of them."

"I am sorry, melmenya." The Elves were treated to the sight of the great Smith going down on bended knee before his imperious wife.  "Will you accept a gift for me in proof of my love?" He produced a glittering necklace from one pocket, tiny emeralds entwined in perfect silver oak leaves.

"Hmpfh.  I suppose it is sufficient." But she could not entirely repress the smile that curved the corners of her lips.

"I do not imagine why you cannot simply produced another pudding," Manwë persisted.  Being Lord of Arda is perhaps not conducive in teaching one when it is wise to stop.  "We are Ainur after all…"

"And once again you fail to see the point," Varda snapped.  "I told you that is was dangerous to have that feast in Almaren as respite from our labours, and you failed to see the point then.  You said that 'twas simply that I was not much fond of parties." She sniffed melodramatically.  "And you fail to see the point now.  I do not wish our children to grow up thinking that they can simply make such things happen; I wish them to understand a little of that which the Elves know."

"But we are not Elves, and they _can _simply make things come into being."

Fingolfin looked pointedly at his wife, and Anairë sighed.  She left the room and returned a moment later clutching a gilt-wrapped box.

"My lord." She curtsied prettily.  "I beg you to take this as a gesture of our deepest love for all the Valar."  She held out a box of sweetmeats, and added in an undertone, "Although they were intended for Finarfin."

"Do not fear." Fingolfin pulled her down into the chair next to his and kissed our hand.  "From what I have heard from the elfling here…" Elrond grimaced at the term.  "…My brother will be rather too busy preventing his son making any foolish gestures for the sake of his Vanyar sweetheart to notice one missing gift."

And at least it seemed to have prevented a civil war among the Valar – although that could have had something to do with the extraordinary density and stickiness of the toffees.

One by one the Valarlings slipped into a contented doze, watched over by their gooey-eyed parents.

"Just look at them," Aulë cooed – an interesting prospect at the best of times.  "Are they not the most wondrous of creatures…?"

And Elrond and Celebrían finally made good their escape, vowing to bar themselves into their bedchamber until the Gates of Summer with a plentiful supply of cream and honey.  And never to answer the door to anyone, however young or however mighty.

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Translations:

(Sindarin)

Celeb loth nîn – my silver flower.

Melethril – my lover (female).

Hervess-nîn – my wife.

El-nîn – my star.

Meleth-nîn – my love.


End file.
